The Shame of (not) Being a Writer

I once wrote ten pages in the lobby of a hotel I was not staying at.   I looked like I belonged there, so I did belong, and I wrote ten pages.

At that moment, I knew what it was to be a writer.  I had it all figured out.   "Sit back down where you belong" Lady Gaga once sort of said, though her song indicated high heels, and I was not about to bust those out.   But outside of the heels, sit right down and get writing,  Let the words flow and see what comes of things.  And I did.  Ten glorious pages of writing.  Certainly not great stuff, I did not write the next average novel, nor a poem that will get seventeen likes on Facebook.   But I wrote.

I went to bed that evening (not in that lobby) and as I said, I knew what it was to be a writer.  At that moment, I wondered what I would accomplish tomorrow now that I have the secret in my hands?   Armed with that knowledge I had some trouble closing the eyes.   I had the answer.  Ten pages of answer were right across the bed from me.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still feeling the rush of the previous eve and stared over at my beautiful pages, all ten of them.   Imagine if I actually sat down to write like this each day?  What magic could be cast upon the page then?  So that day passed as days tend to do, and that night I sat down to write.  

I had a good second night, bashing out five pages.  Not quality stuff at all.  Indeed, I will have to say it was bad even by bad standards.  I was reluctant to lift my pen for fear of losing my words, so any words that came to mind were dropped down on the page.   Bashing out five pages was quite literally meant.  Very few of them blended together very well, but I still knocked out five pages and that is nothing to be ashamed of.

On night three, I did not write.  I was tired.   But I was averaging five pages a day even with a break in there, so I had nothing to head my head over.  The next day was also a resting day, but I was still averaging over three pages a day.  And a moment later (metaphorically) two weeks had passed and now those ten pages were a measure of shame for me.

And I know that feeling of shame all too well.  I know the dangers of not writing yet I seem to be a master of it.   Stephen King wrote "On Writing".  I fear my book may be "On Not Writing".

What I could do if I did not make so many excuses?

We shall try to find out in the blogger's dangerous days - the slow days of summer.